West of the Pecos
by TheFisherKitty
Summary: Our beloved In Plain Sight characters... in a western? Written as a birthday present for BuJyo. Hang on to your saddles and enjoy the ride! Now rated M; new and improved formula contains smut! Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own In Plain Sight... I'll just pick up an idea and run with it like crazy!  
**

**Author's Note: This is a very strange and very special story. It's being written as a birthday present for BuJyo, who is wonderfully supportive of my writing in addition to being an amazing writer herself. Happy Birthday, BuJyo, and thanks for everything! More chapters with adventure, fun, and eventually smut will be coming! =D**

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**West of the Pecos**

**Part 1**

Thundering hoofbeats cast clouds of dust into the dry desert air as Marshall Mann rode into the small town in the newly established New Mexico Territory. The United States Marshal was on an errand to answer an urgent request from the town's mayor; lawlessness was afoot, and he was there to ferret it out in whatever form it took.

He rode dressed in black trousers and a matching black vest over a white dress shirt, on which he'd been sweating a fair bit. His long black duster was slung over the back of his saddle, removed as a concession to the heat, but he had otherwise gone out of his way to maintain a dignified manner of dress; his status as a marshal demanded that he present a certain image, one which he completed with a gunbelt, black cowboy boots, and his badge.

His arrival did not go unnoticed, for as soon as he was in sight, word began to spread through town like wildfire, and by the time he rode into the town proper, a crowd had gathered. At the head of the gathering stood a short, balding man in a fancy waistcoat and bow tie, checking a pocket watch on a long, gold chain.

"Right on time," the little man remarked contentedly, stroking his curled moustache as the marshal dismounted before him.

Marshall's brow knitted in confusion at the man's remark. He was scheduled to arrive any time during the week and nothing more specific than that, but he supposed the man in charge wanted to play up the part.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the bald man continued. "My name is Stan McQueen, and I'm the mayor of this fine city."

Marshall grimaced slightly. Calling the ramshackle gathering of buildings a town was a stretch; to refer to them as a city crossed the line well into ludicrous.

"U.S. Marshal Marshall Mann, at your service," he continued the introductions, clasping the mayor's outstretched hand.

"You said marshal twice," the man said, giving him an odd look.

"Marshall is my name as well as my title," Marshall replied, and the bald fellow nodded in understanding. "What seems to be the trouble?"

"Come along to my parlor," Mayor McQueen invited, gesturing to a much younger man who seemed to bear some resemblance to him, even with his full head of hair that was parted down the middle in the fashion of the day. "My assistant, Charlie, will pour us some drinks and we shall discuss the matter in depth."

"You should bring that tall drink of water over here for some… _refreshments,_" an older woman shouted from the balcony of a nearby brothel, her tone lewdly suggestive. Her manner of dress and the way she draped herself over the railing left Marshall in little doubt as to the nature of the woman's occupation; she was undoubtedly a prostitute, and from the look of things, she'd been in service for quite some time.

"Jinx Shannon," the mayor shouted back, "would you kindly show the marshal some respect? Your deportment leaves much to be desired."

"Your _hair _leaves much to be desired!" she screeched in reply.

"Quiet, you old harlot!" the mayor bellowed before regaining his composure and gesturing to Marshall to follow him.

Once they were settled in the parlor room of the mayor's home, during which time Charlie served them some surprisingly good-quality brandy, the mayor got down to brass tacks.

"This jewel of the desert in which you find yourself presently," he opened grandiosely, "was once a quiet, peaceful settlement of good, kind, law-abiding people… the elder Miss Shannon notwithstanding… but no longer. A criminal element has this town in an uproar. They've robbed the bank twice, they wreak havoc and spread destruction wherever they go, and my people are now forced to live in terror."

"And you have no local law enforcement here?" Marshall asked curiously.

"Well…" the balding man hedged, "we do have a sheriff, appointed by myself. Our sheriff, however, is overwhelmed, though that admission has been less than forthcoming. You would do well to tread lightly…"

The mayor was interrupted by a crash as the door to his home was thrust open rudely, slamming into the wall and knocking down a portrait which hung there. Boots clomped down through the foyer with rapid, angry steps, and the doorway to the parlor was soon filled by an imposing and rather curious figure.

She was tall for a woman, Marshall noted once he realized it was, in fact, a woman who stood before them. Long, golden hair flowed around her face, partly pulled back to keep it out of her eyes. She was dressed quite boldly in men's clothing, the button-down shirt open at the top nearly to the point of indecency and pants cinched tightly at the waist. She wore cowboy boots, which accounted for the loud stomping that had accompanied her arrival. Marshall wriggled in his seat a bit; there was something about this woman, dressed so inappropriately, that he found intensely provocative.

"What the hell, Stan?" she shouted at the mayor. "I just got back from settling a fence-line dispute out at the Alpert ranch, and I come back to find there's a goddamned fed in town to do my job?"

"Sheriff Mary Shannon, may I introduce United States Marshal Marshall Mann," the mayor replied, being none too obvious in his attempt to redirect the blonde woman's wrath.

"You said marshal twice," she said in a withering tone, spearing Stan with a glare to match.

Marshall cleared his throat, bringing her attention back to him. "My given name is Marshall, and I am also a marshal."

"That has got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she snapped, before turning back to Stan. "I can deal with O'Connor and those morons he rides with. You didn't have to make Marshal Marshall here waste his damn time when I don't need him."

"Now, Mary," Stan held up his hands placatingly, "you may not want to admit it, but this situation with O'Connor and his boys has gotten out of hand, and it's time we had some help from a higher authority."

"To hell with higher authority, and to hell with O'Connor!" she barked. "And that's _Sheriff Mary _to you!"

"If I may interrupt," Marshall broke in, "who is this O'Connor?"

"He's nobody," Mary huffed. "Nothing but a mule-headed jackass who rides with a bunch of feeble-brained idiots, gallivanting all over hell and back causing trouble. I can handle him just fine on my own."

She glared at Stan again before turning to the door and storming out. Stan ran a hand anxiously over his bald head, casting an apologetic glance at Marshall.

"If you don't mind, I think I'm just going to, um…" Marshall gestured vaguely after the incensed sheriff; when the mayor nodded, he jumped up and dashed after her. Somehow, he couldn't just let her walk away.

Grit and dust crunched under his boots as he pursued her outside. The hot desert sun set her hair ablaze with reflected light. She clutched a hat in her hand, white-knuckled with fury, and in the absence of the hat on her head a breeze caught at her hair, tossing it about. He caught her by the shoulder and she spun to face him, her eyes flashing fiercely.

"What do you want?" she spat. "Is this the part where you tell me to be a good little woman and step aside so you can do the men's work? Because I can tell you right now, that is not going to happen."

He stood his ground, not entirely surprised at her venom. This was not a world that treated women well, he knew, and especially the unconventional ones like herself.

"That was the furthest thing from my mind," he assured her, hoping she wouldn't find his tone to be overly patronizing.

"Oh, I see. Then this is the part where you suggest we get a room at the cathouse and knock boots as God intended," she replied, her gaze searing.

Marshall choked slightly; that bold of a statement did surprise him somewhat, and while he hadn't been planning on suggesting anything of the sort, it hit too close to the mark for comfort.

"I was going to suggest that I can do my job that much better with assistance from someone who knows the situation, who can show me the lay of the land," he recovered, evading her previous accusation.

Mary scoffed at him. "That doesn't sound like that great of an offer to me, getting to be your assistant. Like that kid Charlie in there, always playing fetch at Stan's beck and call. No thank you."

"I'm talking about an equitable partnership," he offered. "I won't order you around. If I want something from you, I'll ask for it."

"You'd be the first man in history to agree to that with a woman," she answered with a bitter laugh. "Fine. If you think you can live up to that arrangement, I'll accept. But if you cross that line with me, I'll run you out of town myself."

Marshall could have pointed out that, sheriff or not, she hadn't the right to run him out, and he thought he could take her… but he sensed she had a hard edge to her, a dangerous streak that it would be unwise to test. Added to that was the fact that the more she railed against him, the more he came to see her as an intriguing oddity, a puzzle to be figured out. Instead, he held out his hand; she gripped it firmly with a surprisingly large hand of her own and the deal was struck.

"Now that we've got that worked out… do you know where I could rent a room?" He glanced up and down the main throughway but didn't see what he was looking for. "I can't seem to find a hotel."

"That's because Stan hasn't managed to get one built yet," she answered with an ominous leer. "There's only one place with rooms to let, and that's the cathouse."

He followed her pointed finger to the brothel from which he'd previously been propositioned, and, wincing, he heaved a sigh. This was going to be a long assignment.

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**A/N: There will be more to follow, so hang on for the ride, cowpokes! XD**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Don't own IPS, so no lawsuits please!**

**Author's Note: This is NOT the smut chapter, but there is a little bit of a teaser. So it's a bit suggestive but no rating bump yet. Yet being the operative word! Enjoy! =P**

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**West of the Pecos**

**Part 2**

"Wake up, D!" Mary bellowed as she kicked the chair out from under the sleeping man. He fell unceremoniously to the floor, glaring at her as he shed the last vestiges of sleep and slowly gathered himself up.

"Dammit, girl, what the hell did you go and do a thing like that for?" he grumbled.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it has something to do with the fact that I wanted to introduce you to the United States Marshal who arrived in town today, only to find you sleeping on the job," she snapped, though more for show than out of real bitterness.

"I didn't get much sleep last night once we brought that drunk in. He didn't shut up until after dawn, you know that?" he said pointedly. "Besides, it's not like he's going anywhere."

Mary's glare softened; she sympathized with her deputy, for she had found herself stuck dealing with the local boozehound on more than one occasion.

"Well, I guess that settles it. Anyway, this here is the marshal, Marshall Mann," she introduced him to the tall man who had followed her in to the front room of the small jail. "Marshall, this is my deputy, Robert Dershowitz."

"Your first name is Marshall?" he asked dubiously as he clasped the marshal's outstretched hand.

"Caught that, did you?" Marshall replied. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise. Call me Bobby, or Bobby D. Or just plain D if you want."

Just then, a plaintive cry came wavering from the back, where the jail cells were. "Mary? Is that you?"

"Aw, crap. He's awake," she hissed, heading for the back with a string of muttered curses.

Curious, Marshall followed, Bobby D trailing in his wake for want of anything better to do. He found, when he entered the room, that it was divided into three cells, only the furthest of which was occupied. A Hispanic man sat on the floor of his cell, holding his head in a way that suggested he was nursing a hangover of enormous proportions. Mary stood in front of the cell, her arms crossed.

"Raphael," she spoke, her tone deliberately sharp. The man winced.

"Mary, please, my head. It hurts."

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you drank so much," she replied. "And it's Sheriff, Raphael, not Mary."

"I am not the sheriff," the man murmured in confusion.

Mary rolled her eyes. "No, you aren't. I am, and that's how you will address me while you're in my jail."

"Mary, uh, _Sheriff _Mary," he responded carefully, "why am I still here? You usually let me go once I am sober. I am sorry I drank so much."

"Oh, I bet you are," she scoffed as he closed his eyes and rubbed at them, trying to dispel the unpleasant feeling in his head. "You can save your explanations for Charlie."

"Charlie?" he asked, looking up. "What does it have to do with Charlie?"

"You stole his bicycle last night. You know, that crazy two-wheeled contraption he rides all over town on errands for Stan."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he muttered impudently.

"Really? Because you crashed it into the hitching post in front of the general store," she snapped. "Which is where I arrested you."

Bobby D coughed loudly behind her.

"Which is where Bobby D and I arrested you," she amended.

"You can't prove whose bicycle that was," Raph stubbornly protested.

"Raph, everyone knows whose bicycle that is. I don't know how many times I've almost gotten caught under the huge front wheel on that thing myself," she pointed out. "Besides which, it's the only bicycle in town."

Raphael sighed. "How long am I in here?"

"Until the bicycle's fixed," she answered. "This morning I was told it would be about three days."

The now-sober man nodded in resignation. The two lawmen and one law-woman returned to the front room.

"So, D, as you may have heard," Mary spoke, gesturing to Marshall, "Stan requested a U.S. Marshal be sent here to help us sort out the O'Connor mess."

Bobby D raised an eyebrow and looked Marshall over skeptically.

"Whether he actually is the badass lawman everyone believes he is remains to be proven," she placated her deputy, "but he has made an offer to be equal partners with me, and as such, we'll work with him for now."

"Thank you for that ringing endorsement," Marshall said as she gestured to him to speak. "And now, I think we'd best get down to discussing business. What do we know about O'Connor's current whereabouts?"

"Word came in this morning, while you were out dealing with that boundary problem," Bobby D directed his statement to Mary, then encompassed Marshall with a glance. "O'Connor and his men rode north a few days ago. They haven't come back yet, but they will, and probably soon."

Mary nodded thoughtfully. "D, I want you to start asking around about who might be interested in forming a posse to go after this son of a bitch. Be careful who you talk to, though; I don't want him getting wind that we're thinking of coming after him in force. We need to do this quietly."

"I know just where to start," her deputy replied with a nod. "What are you going to do?"

Mary's face split with a grin. "I'm going to escort our badass lawman to his new accommodations."

Bobby D chuckled. "Right. You'll definitely want to get a room before dark. They get real busy after that."

* * *

Mary had indeed 'escorted' him to the house of ill repute, her terrible pun not lost on him. She'd laughed at his expense during the exchange at the front during which his arrangements had been made, and had then disappeared to he knew not where.

Having secured a room and assured the proprietrix of the establishment that he needed no additional services, Marshal Marshall Mann settled into the rented room at the brothel. It was poorly lit, with massive velvet draperies, red, of course, that blocked most of the sunlight from outside. He suspected that in addition to setting the mood, the dim lighting made the employees look more palatable as they plied their trade.

Nor were the draperies the only things made of velvet; the canopy on the four poster bed, the duvet cover, and the upholstery on the other furnishings were all covered in the plush red material, and most were accented by gold fringe as well. He thought he even saw a lamp in the back corner that had some kind of velvety ornamental cover, and he questioned the wisdom of combining such a thing with a device that necessitated a flame.

He sat back on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable, neither too firm nor too soft. Considering the quality of the bed and the masses of velvet everywhere, the cathouse's founder had clearly spared no expense when decorating. Laying back, he settled atop the soft, feather-filled duvet, enjoying the luxury of it for one brief moment. Perhaps houses of ill repute were not such bad places to rent rooms after all, garish though the décor might be.

It was then that the sound coming through the wall registered: a flurry of squeaking and creaking from an overworked bed frame in rapid motion, coupled with a man's repeated grunts which were overlaid with the occasional feminine squeal. Marshall sat up quickly and bolted for the door; the threshold of his delicate sensibilities well-crossed, he abandoned the room and headed for the bath.

The corridor outside what appeared, at last, to be the bath was uncrowded, which, if the sounds from behind the many closed doors he'd passed in his search were indicators, was likely because the establishment was at the high point of its nightly business and no one was yet interested in bathing. The notion of such numerous transactions taking place under one roof and in such proximity to himself made him feel dirty in a way he didn't particularly want to acknowledge. A bath was definitely in order.

He pushed the door open and froze at the ratcheting click of a gun's hammer being cocked back. He had indeed found a bathroom, but one already occupied; eyes widened in alarm, he raised his hands and looked up slowly. He couldn't believe it; someone had finally gotten the drop on him, and it was here of all places, in the bath of a whorehouse. He felt a brief moment of certainty that his life was really going to end in such an undignified place before it finally registered with him who it was that held a gun on him.

She was reclined in one of the two filled and steaming tubs in the room, aiming the gun she'd drawn from her holster where it was slung on a chair back next to her. Her soaked blonde hair clung to her neck and shoulders, ends trailing in the water. A film of soap coated the water's surface, obscuring any view of those parts which lay below, but the rounded swells of the tops of her breasts heaved tantalizingly in view, and her legs were spread, one knee slung over each side of the tub, her feet dangling. Curiously, her feet were still clad in her boots.

The image before him redirected the adrenaline surge that had occurred when she'd drawn down on him; he now felt an intense surge elsewhere, and his heart kept pounding. It was hard, or rather difficult, to focus on the fact that she still held her weapon trained on him when all he could think of was what she'd look like without the water in the way. It was too easy to envision her on a bed, his hands on her thighs as those long legs wrapped around his hips…

"Put your eyes back in your head, cowboy," Mary said with a smirk as she let the hammer down and returned the gun to its holster.

Marshall stammered incoherently, then collected himself. "I was looking for a bath."

"Well, you found one," she commented wryly, "though it's supposed to be private. The locals know better and the out-of-towners usually can't find it."

"But there's two," he said, gesturing to the other filled tub.

Mary shrugged. "In case one of the women needs it… but they never bother when it's busy like this. You can use it if you want."

"The gun you drew on me might suggest otherwise," he replied, arching an eyebrow.

"Don't take it personally. I don't want some goddamn drunk mistaking me for one of the working girls, that's all."

His sense of decorum warred with other concerns; he still wanted a bath, and moreover, this particular bath offered the opportunity to remain in her presence – both of them naked! – which tempted him, no matter how improper it was.

"Why are you still wearing your boots?" he asked, stalling for time to decide.

"It's the damn whores!" Mary grumbled. "They'll steal 'em if they get a chance. Don't worry, I washed my feet and then put them back on."

He followed her nodding glance to a stool in the corner, accompanied by a wash bucket and a towel. Glancing furtively about, though he had no idea for whom he was checking, he closed the door. He knew this was by no means appropriate, but temptation had gotten the better of him.

He pulled his boots off, setting them carefully aside, and hung his gun belt in similar fashion to hers. He made to unbutton the collar of his shirt when he became aware of her gaze upon him.

"You're not going to watch, are you?" he asked her dubiously.

She only shrugged before reaching for her hat where it sat on the chair. She plopped it on her head, letting it cant forward so the wide brim settled low over her eyes.

Marshall hesitated before nodding in satisfaction and continuing, his back to her for added discretion. As he stripped, he cast about for another towel and found one. He cinched it around his hips, but not before Mary, sneaking a glance from beneath her hat, caught a glimpse of his well-toned backside. After taking in the firm musculature of his back, she tilted the hat back down, hiding her pleased grin from sight.

Feet washed and dried and boots securely back on, Marshall lowered himself into the tub, knees slung over the sides as she had done. He was glad for the hat over her face, since even with the towel he still wore, some things could not be hidden; below the surface of the water, the thin fabric was tented up massively, and would probably remain so until he found some time alone to rectify his situation. He grabbed the bar of soap and lathered it furiously, releasing as many of the resulting suds as possible to float on the water in the hopes of some cover if she should decide her hat was no longer needed.

"Hard to get any sleep here until things wind down for the night," Mary supplied. "Good time for a bath."

"How did you know?" he asked. "Come to think of it, what are you doing here?"

She pushed her hat back with one finger, casting him an amused glance which made him doubly glad for the soap suds and towel obstructing her view.

"I live here."

"Here?" he replied, eyebrows raised. "In a…"

"Whorehouse, yeah. I've lived here since I was a kid."

He nodded as comprehension dawned. "Your last name is Shannon… like that woman who propositioned me when I first came into town. Your mayor called her Jinx, I think."

"My mother," Mary offered confirmation.

"Your father was a customer?" his brow furrowed as he asked the question.

"No, worse," she replied with a dry, bitter laugh. "Daddy was a bank robber. We didn't know until he left us, went on the run from the law. I expect someone finally hanged him, or else he might have come back for us. We've been living here since I was seven years old."

"So your mother…?" he trailed off, able to piece together enough to realize they'd had nowhere else to go.

Marshall felt saddened by her revelation, although it was remarkable that a woman, the daughter of a criminal and raised in a whorehouse, could still make something of herself after all that. And to become a sheriff on top of that was virtually unheard of for a woman, even in the best of circumstances.

"Jinx did what she could, but God knows she's only got one usable skill, unless you count drinking, and there's no money to be had in that. Well… that, and she can carry a tune and dance pretty fair, but it's hard to make a living on the stage with two girls to raise."

"You have a sister?"

"Yep, she lives here. Works here, too," she said, eyeing him slyly. "You didn't leave any valuables in your room, did you?"

He shrugged, the water in his tub sloshing. "Just my duster. I left in something of a hurry."

Mary pursed her lips. "Don't worry. I'll get it back for you."

"You really think the, uh, ladies will have taken it?" he asked with a grimace.

"Oh, I don't think so, I _know _so," she replied.

She reached lazily for her towel, draping it across the top of the tub before heaving herself up and out. The towel clung to her naked form, greedily soaking up the moisture on her skin. Marshall caught only the barest glimpse of curving flesh before she pulled the towel around in the back. He stared, wide-eyed and slack-jawed as she moved to her piled clothing.

"I have to get dressed, if you don't mind," said pointedly, narrowing her eyes. Not certain what else he could do, he raised a hand to his own eyes and covered them. Satisfied, Mary began pulling her clothes on.

Marshall found the mental image of what she was doing intensely provocative, perhaps more so than the real thing, if he were so lewd as to watch. But that wasn't something a gentleman would do, and he was nothing if not a gentleman… probably. After an intense inner debate, he felt his fingers spreading apart as though by a will not his own, and he peeked between them.

He was just in time to see a mass of fabric flying at him; Mary's thrown towel flopped neatly over his head, obscuring his view.

"Don't feel too bad," she said, her voice amused as she headed out the door. "No one can resist trying to look."

Marshall pulled the discarded towel from his head. He was certain that there was no other woman in the entire world like that one.

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**A/N: Let me know what you think! And be sure to saddle up for the next chapter! =)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own In Plain Sight... a fact for which Marshall in particular would be grateful after this chapter. ;)**

**Author's Note: No actual smut yet, but this is another, ahem, _suggestive _chapter. Honestly, I have no idea where this came from, but that doesn't stop me from laughing over it, and I hope it won't stop you all, either! Not quite M, but definitely a strong T. I trust you'll be able to handle it. =P**

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**West of the Pecos**

**Part 3**

Marshall woke to a knock on the door of his room. He rubbed his face as he sat up; he'd slept poorly, owing to the continued ruckus of what was evidently considered in the cathouse to be business as usual, which had persisted until shortly before dawn. How the ladies managed to drum up such an extensive customer base in a town this small was beyond him, but he supposed there might be all manner of ranchers and homesteaders and prospectors living in the surrounding area who likely availed themselves of the services offered.

Nor had that been the only issue keeping him awake; his dreams had been permeated with images of Sheriff Mary Shannon, dripping wet and in the nude, performing all manner of acts upon him. The imagined touch of his fingers over her voluptuous body, kept hidden under the guise of men's clothing by day, lingered in his waking mind and drove him to distraction. He found himself wondering if she really felt the way he'd dreamed, if she would really make the sounds she had in his head, if her skin would really taste that way against his tongue.

Heaving a sigh, he pulled his trousers on and straightened his shirt. Donning his gun belt and boots, he made his way to the door. The sight that greeted him when he opened it was a surprise to say the least: a blonde woman stood there, bearing a resemblance to the sheriff, but younger, shorter, and with lighter hair. Unlike the sheriff, who wore hers down, this woman's hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head that had some kind of feathered hair ornament poking out of it, with curled locks hanging about her face. He thought, though the lascivious gleam in her eye was all her own, that she had to be the sister of whom Mary had spoken. She was also wearing his purloined duster, confirming his suspicions; the garment nearly brushed the floor as she pushed past him into his room, owing to the distinct difference in their heights.

Marshall left the door slightly ajar as he made to follow her. He felt it might be prudent to leave an avenue of escape ready, for this girl seemed to him to be fully capable of causing all kinds of trouble, and he was certain he didn't want what she was selling either literally or metaphorically. He did, however, want to regain ownership of his duster.

"You're here to give that back?" he asked with a gesture to his coat, after waiting for her to say something and being met only with her unsettling gaze.

"Is that what you want, cowboy?" she replied, her leer becoming positively lecherous, a grin to match spreading across her face.

"Yes…" he answered hesitantly, his brow furrowed; he could tell by her tone, not to mention the perverse expression that graced her features, that there was some subtext here that he had missed, but he was taking a chance that an affirmative answer might get his duster safely back in his possession.

"You got it, stud," she groaned breathily, pulling the coat open and letting it fall to the floor.

Marshall immediately realized what he'd missed; she was evidently here to do business. She was dressed like something from a burlesque show, all scanty lingerie and stockings, breasts heaving and only barely constrained by the top of her bustier. His vision was crowded with satin and lace and sparkly, light-catching embellishments that drew the eye irresistibly to skin, skin, and more skin.

"Oh, Jesus," he squeaked, trying desperately to look anywhere else but finding himself unable to look away; finally his gaze settled on the ludicrously feathered hair ornament that peeked over the top of her head. He stared fixedly at it, as if it might somehow provide his salvation.

She advanced upon him and he backed away, eyes still locked on the feathery headpiece, and before he realized what she was doing, she had maneuvered him around to the bed. He felt the mattress hit the back of his knees, and with one push he was down. She clambered on top of him, a position from which he could easily escape, but in order to accomplish the task he would have to push her off, or grab her in some fashion. There seemed to be no handhold that was safe, and he was loathe to shove a woman unless he was in peril of his life. He was uncertain how far decorum permitted him to go in defense of his virtue. Besides which, the wholly unexpected situation had come on him with such suddenness, and with such near-nudity, that he was finding it difficult to process or otherwise react.

"Just sit back a spell, and let me do my thing," the woman cooed encouragingly, her hands sliding over his shirt-clad chest, fingers working expertly at the buttons.

"Please stop," he hissed as her lips found his neck. "Don't. I don't want this."

The blonde sat back, looking confused for a moment, then grinned broadly as a look of understanding lit her eyes. Suddenly she looked more dangerous than before, and Marshall's eyes widened in apprehension.

"So that's how you like it," she said seductively, the words fairly oozing from her mouth as she produced a riding crop, seemingly from nowhere. "Saddle up, cowboy!"

He yelped as she lunged at him, brandishing the crop. He pushed off the floor with his booted feet and squirmed backward across the bed, but the woman hung on like a spider monkey he'd once seen in a zoo. She gripped the implement between her teeth and reached for his belt buckle; he rolled beneath her onto his stomach. She straddled his back, grabbed his hair, and gave a whoop as he felt the sting of her riding crop through the seat of his pants.

"Ow!" he cried. "What the hell are you doing back there?"

He pushed off the bed onto all fours, trying now in earnest to escape, but it seemed only to encourage her. She wrapped her legs around his ribs, her heeled slippers digging into his gut. The crop bit into his ass once more, and again, and she squealed with delight as he bucked underneath her.

"Yeah, show me what you've got!" she hollered, tightening her grip in his hair and whipping him enthusiastically.

"Get off of me!" Marshall shouted as he struggled, but still she hung on, remaining astride him even when he slipped and went face down in the duvet.

"All I hear is neigh, neigh, neigh, pony-man!" she trilled with abject glee.

"What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?" a familiar voice bellowed.

Both of them looked up to meet Mary's appalled stare, Marshall from the folds of the duvet and the prostitute from her perch on his raised hindquarters.

"Oh, hello there, Mary!" his assailant chirped happily.

"Mary! Mary, help me!" he grunted breathlessly from his awkward position, his widened eyes narrowing to a squint as the duvet cover poked into one of them.

Mary pursed her lips. "Brandi, what do you think you're doing?"

"I was just returning his duster, like you told me to," she replied with feigned innocence.

"Yep, because that's certainly what it _looks_ like you're doing," Mary replied, dripping sarcasm.

"He was taking it out in trade?" Brandi tried again, her voice lilting dubiously to match the guilty expression that she made when caught in the act, a face Mary had seen her make many times.

"No, I wasn't! I really wasn't!" Marshall uttered a muffled protest.

"I know that, idiot," Mary cast him a withering glance before turning her attention back to her sister. "Get off of him, already. We have work to do."

"There are easier ways to earn a living, Mary," she replied, then shrugged as her sister continued to glare at her. "I'm just sayin'."

"Squish! Off!" the sheriff commanded.

With a roll of her eyes, Brandi slid down Marshall's still inclined back toward his shoulders. Once her knees landed on either side of his head, she grabbed a bedpost and swung herself away from him. Marshall sat up, rubbed his lower back, and groaned; Mary's sister's pony-ride act had done a number on him. He didn't think he'd feel right for at least a week, and that was only counting the physical damage. The psychological scarring, on the other hand, might well be permanent.

"Get it together, beanpole," she barked. "We just got word from the Alperts. They've just received a ransom note from their son, sent by O'Connor's men, no doubt."

"Oh my God, Peter?" Brandi gasped, hands going to her mouth in distress. "Is he alright?"

"Well, no, Brandi," Mary bit out sarcastically. "He's been kidnapped. Of course he's not alright."

"Oh… right," she grimaced.

"The Alperts?" Marshall questioned as he put himself together. "Isn't that the ranch you were visiting when I got here?"

"Yes, as it happens. That was just a boundary dispute with the neighboring farm. They've got a pretty big herd of cattle and some of them got through the fences. Their son, Peter, grew up in these parts, same as us, but he's been gone for a while. If they really have him, they must have grabbed him on his way back from studying at the seminary."

"Ooh, wait, does that word mean what I think it means?" Brandi interjected, looking intrigued.

Mary eyed her caustically. "It definitely doesn't. We'll talk when I get back, Squish, but right now the marshal and I have to go."

She led Marshall down the hall to where their horses were waiting out front; Mary informed him that Charlie had readied them while she went to find him. As he swung into the saddle, Marshall felt a flash of sympathy for the animal.

"Sorry about this," he whispered into the animal's ear, then leaned back and sat tall in the saddle, following Mary as she rode out of town.

* * *

**A/N: Do we want to know where Brandi was keeping that riding crop? ... No. No, we don't. XP**

**Thanks for reading, and for all the great reviews so far! Be sure to hang on for the next chapter in this wild ride, and remember, reviews are writing fuel, so be sure to let me know what you think! Feed the muses! =D**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own In Plain Sight, but I think it mixes rather deliciously with the Old West.**

**Author's Note: So BuJyo was like, "Kitty, what's up with my _awesome birthday western fic_?" And I was like, "What's up, indeed?" Okay, so I'm paraphrasing here. This story got a little sidetracked while I felt compelled to write some Faber material after the finale. But the key point to remember is that this fic is dedicated to the awesome BuJyo for her birthday, her awesome writing, her wonderful responses to my writing, and for everything else great about her which is way too much to list here! Saddle up and read on! =D**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 4**

"So, what were your intentions with my sister back there, anyway?" Mary asked as she guided her horse at a steady pace down the road, which was really little more than a path of wagon tracks worn by regular passage.

"Regardless of what you're most likely thinking, my intentions were, at first, to get my coat back," Marshall replied as he followed in her wake. "After a certain point, my priorities shifted to trying to escape with my life."

"Yeah, and what point was that?" she asked, smirking; though he couldn't see her face, he could hear the change of her expression in her voice.

"I started thinking about it when the coat came off and I saw how she was… well, dressed, if you could call it that. But it really became pressing when she pulled out that riding crop. Thank you for intervening, by the way."

"Don't mention it. My sister can be fairly enthusiastic about her trade."

"That's no joke. No matter what I said or did, she just wouldn't stop," he grimaced at the memory. "It was a bit intimidating, and I don't intimidate easily."

"It's not that surprising. How often do you think she hears the word 'no'?"

Marshall uttered a short laugh as he rode, tugging the reins to coax his horse around a gopher hole.

"What's the deal there, anyway?" Mary asked suddenly, looking over her shoulder at him. "Never been with a woman before, or something?"

Marshall's eyes widened, though he wasn't sure why anything the woman said or did should strike him as shocking anymore. "That's hardly a polite topic of discussion in mixed company."

"Suit yourself," Mary said with a shrug. "I reckon I've got my answer anyway."

"Now, hold on a minute," he stammered, flustered by her assumption. He drew alongside her and she reined her horse back to pace him. "For your information, and this is just to clarify so that you don't go on indulging a misplaced assumption…"

"Just to clarify, and not as an unnecessary attempt to defend your masculinity?" she asked, feigning innocence.

"… Right. In clarification, I have been with several women," he responded, meeting her eyes and holding her gaze. "But I've never had the need to pay for it."

"Whatever, cowboy," she said with a smirk before urging her mount forward. "Pick up the pace. Time's running short."

As the ranch came into view, the crack of a rifle shot split the air. Dust puffed from the ground near Mary's mount, spooking the beast and causing it to buck wildly. She stuck tight in the saddle, only just managing to keep her seat, and she struggled to rein in the horse as it bolted. Scanning the terrain for the shooter, Marshall spotted a trace of movement and the glint of sunlight on metal as another shot rang out. That shot, too, was a miss, and Marshall drew his weapon and returned fire, though accuracy at that range was slim to none; he hoped to frighten the rifleman more than anything else. His gambit seemed to work as no more shots came, and he set off at a rapid pace toward where he had last seen the sheriff.

Mary's charging mount had led her off the path and into a nearby creek bed, behind some bluffs and out of Marshall's sight. When he came around the bend in the path, he found her horse, spooked, champing at the bit… and riderless. He dismounted and cautiously approached the animal, managing to catch the reins.

He stroked the horse's nose soothingly as he surveyed the scene. There were scuff marks in the soft earth of the creek bed, made by boot heels, the pattern interrupted at random intervals, as though someone had been dragged while fighting, likely kicking. He frowned as he tethered the two horses to a withered tree and followed the trail left by the marks. Soon, he came upon something that struck a note of fear into his heart: Mary's floppy, well-worn hat, evidently pulled off during the struggle, for the cord that would have held it on hat been snapped. He folded the canvas hat in his hands, lips pressed in a grim line.

Further along still, he came upon hoof tracks, and here the boot marks, both those being dragged and those doing the dragging, ceased; the hoof marks continued until the soft mud of the creek bed gave way to the hardened desert floor, and no further marks could be discerned, nor could any riders be seen in any direction.

Still clutching the hat, he backtracked. It had all been part of a plan, he realized; that first rifle shot hadn't been a miss. It had been intended to frighten her horse, its flight sending her into a trap where O'Connor's men lay in wait. What they wanted from her, he had no idea, nor did he know where they would take her or what they would do to her when they got her there. His first and best course of action would be to head to the ranch, meet Bobby D there, and try to get the answers he would need.

His stomach churned with an inner rage that burned him deep; though he knew the sheriff was one hellion of a woman, more than capable of standing on her own, a large part of him felt that by being in her company he'd been obligated to protect her, an obligation at which he'd failed utterly. And if that had been the start and finish of the matter, he could have dealt with it, but it wasn't. Underneath the mounting fury, something else quietly consumed him: his heart ached for the loss of her. He'd barely known her more than a day, and yet he felt a gaping wound like the path of a bullet at the thought that her absence might be permanent.

_Damn it all to hell and back, _he thought bitterly. A man in his occupation couldn't afford to fall in love this easily. No, the job demanded a heart fortified to withstand an invading army, a soul that could pick up and go and leave everything behind without a backward glance but by God, by the devil, by all the forces of nature and the universe itself, he knew not how but that woman had gotten in. There was nothing for it, now, and he could sort it all out when all was said and done, but his only course now was to try to find her, and hope he wasn't too late.

As he approached the ranch, Mary's horse in tow, Bobby D rode out to meet him. "Where is she?" her deputy demanded, worry transmuted to anger blazing in his eyes.

"They took her," Marshall replied succinctly. "It was a trap. They left a ransom note here and waited for her to come."

"Damn," Bobby D hissed. "Did you see where they went?"

"They got her in the creek bed. She was out of my sight for only a few minutes, so they must have found cover after they rode into the desert. The dirt was too hard to track them after they left the creek."

"There's only one person who can help us now," the deputy said cryptically, squinting as he looked out over the desert. A ranch hand, approaching on foot, finally reached them and took Mary's horse. "She lives in a little cabin a few miles from here."

"Then we ride," Marshall spurred his horse, following the deputy as he rode.

* * *

They'd ridden hard over flat terrain, but were forced to a slower pace by the gully they now navigated. At the faster speed there had been little opportunity for talking, but Marshall took advantage of the necessary reduction to get some answers.

"Who is it that we're going to see?" he queried; Bobby D glanced back, surprised at the sudden question.

"She's a tracker. White woman, but she was raised by the natives, or so some people say. Others say she's one-sixteenth Indian, that it's in her blood, but the tribe changes every time you hear the rumor, and she doesn't say much about it either way. Whatever the case, the truth of the matter is that she can find anything. People, animals, places, food, water… hell, she could probably find silver and gold if she wanted to. If she can't find it, it isn't there to be found."

"But there were no tracks," Marshall replied, worried at the course their pursuit was taking.

"There were no tracks that you or I would be able to see, that's true," the deputy replied. "But the ground speaks to her when everyone else hears silence. That's what she says. It's some mix of observation and intuition."

Bobby D paused for a moment, and then continued. "Listen, Marshall, I wouldn't lead you astray on this. Not where Mary is concerned. You already know my last name is Dershowitz and you can't have failed to notice that I'm black. You're smart enough to know that there aren't many sheriffs out here in the west who would accept a deputy who's Jewish or of color, let alone both. Mary's always done right by me, and I will do whatever it takes to bring her home."

Marshall nodded, whatever protest he might have made effectively quelled by the deputy's speech. "So, tell me more about this tracker," he said instead.

"She goes by the name of Eleanor. She used to live in town. Her husband was killed when O'Connor's men robbed the bank a few months back and that's when she came out here. The cabin was where they'd go to hunt and whatnot, and she just decided she didn't want to be part of the town after he was gone. She'll help us though; she won't pass up a chance to get O'Connor back for everything he's done."

They rounded a bend and found themselves on a flat of land on which was nestled a small cabin, a little stable and paddock resting behind it. A woman standing on the porch looked up at their approach. Her hair was thick and long, mostly brown with bits of gray, and the strands around her face were pulled back, two feathers dangling from the knot that held them. She wore a dress with a flowing, Spanish-style skirt belted at the waist, in addition to flat-soled boots of soft leather that reached nearly to her knees. Her expression remained stoic; if she was surprised to find riders approaching her not particularly remote but well-hidden cabin, as she must have been, she did not let it show.

"Robert Dershowitz, so good to see you again," she announced as they approached, her tone carrying the unspoken question, _what are you doing here?_

"Mary Shannon has been taken by O'Connor's men, from the creek bed by the Alpert ranch," Bobby D replied, cutting straight to the point. "The United States Marshal and I need you to follow them."

She was already in motion, heading for the paddock and the small dappled-gray horse that grazed there. She threw the gate wide and mounted the creature without saddle or reins; her fingers twined in its mane and she coaxed it forward with barely any effort that Marshall could see. It was as if the animal responded to the force of her will alone.

"Follow quickly," she said as she headed for the trail. "We'll need to find her before we lose both time and daylight."

The two men urged their mounts after her as she navigated the twisting path far more quickly than they had done, for she knew the way intimately. The pace was swift enough to make Marshall a bit nervous, but he urged his horse onward, fear for Mary's safety chilling him to the bone.

* * *

**A/N: I think I'm in love with Eleanor all over again. I hope to hear your thoughts on this chapter, and be sure to shine your saddle for the next installment! =)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own In Plain Sight, just the DVDs, and some DVDs of westerns as well... =P**

**Author's Note: This story remains dedicated to BuJyo, who asked for some damsel-in-distress rescue action! So without further ado, I am pleased to present...**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 5**

Mary came to with a splitting headache. Her mouth was dry and tasted sour. She remembered a fight and then a cloth being forced over her nose and mouth as she was dragged away, and a sickish-sweet smell that had flooded her nostrils. Then, nothing. And then she was here, wherever here was. She tried to focus her senses on her surroundings.

Darkness. Damp, sweaty darkness. The air hung heavy around her, thick to breathe and tasting stale, like dust and disuse. She forced her eyes open, but the darkness remained. In a panic that she might somehow be blind, she flailed, but her hands and ankles couldn't move.

Metal. Her wrists were bound in some kind of metal, cuffs of some kind. Shackles, she decided as she rattled her bonds. Her arms were drawn up at an uncomfortable angle over her head. Her ankles, too, were bound, though they produced no metallic sound and were pressed tightly together as though tied. Rope, then. She tried to wriggle free, but it was impossible, and the lightless conditions were not improving so there was no hope even of finding anything with which to cut her feet free.

Momentarily, there came a faint light from somewhere far to her left. She wasn't blind, then; the darkness, it seemed, was darkness only. The light grew stronger, bringing a faint echo of footsteps with it as someone approached. With the strengthening light, she began to make out her surroundings. It was a tunnel of some kind, cut through rock and reinforced with crossbeams and such. The walls were irregularly chipped away and here and there were bits of detritus, pick handles and broken lanterns and such, that hinted at the nature of her prison: a mine, she decided, probably one of the copper mines in the mountains outside of town.

By the look of it, this line had been abandoned for some time, likely because it had failed to strike on a good vein of the useful ore. Not that Mary bothered herself with knowing the uses of copper, but she had heard Stan claim on more than one occasion that their town was primed to become a metropolis of the southwest as soon as prospectors struck on the valuable metal. He claimed that with wondrous new technologies being invented all the time, copper would be in demand, and when people came to find it, his town would be ready. She never really understood what the hell he'd been talking about; the little bald mayor was always on about some scheme or another to put his jewel of the desert on the map, and most of them didn't merit close attention.

The source of the light, a good-sized lantern, came into view, held in a black-gloved hand. The owner of the hand followed; the man was sharply dressed, wearing a fine waistcoat and a pressed white shirt with pearl buttons. His coat looked expensive, too, as did all his clothes, as they were all obviously custom-tailored. Topping off the ensemble was a black hat with a wide brim, which he removed after settling the lantern as he knelt to speak to her. Oily-looking salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back on his head, and his eyes were a piercing blue, but unlike Marshall's, this man's gaze was calculating and cold.

"Mary Shannon, we meet at last," he oozed, his tone sinister while still sounding rather sniveling. "The little woman sheriff."

"Who the hell are you?" she snapped fiercely, determined not to be intimidated. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Temper, temper, Kitten. It was just a little something to make you… compliant. They call it chloroform. It truly is one of the wonders of the modern age."

"What do you want with me?" she growled.

"Right… about that…" he sucked in a hiss and winced mockingly. "You're just a little too much of a liability. We can't have you in the way."

"You tell that slime O'Connor that it doesn't matter what he does to me. He won't get away with a damn thing."

"O'Connor?" the man barked a laugh. "O'Connor is merely a tool, nothing more. He and his men are so many ants, puny and worthless, but capable of deeds greater than themselves when unified under a guiding hand. You see, once I've eliminated you and installed O'Connor in your place as sheriff, it won't be long before Stan McQueen's little town becomes _my _little town."

"Do you like to fish turds out of the crapper and keep 'em, too?" she scoffed. "The town's worthless."

"Such a mouth on you, Kitten! Hardly befitting for a woman. But you see, for all that Stan McQueen is a blustering fool, his town really is a diamond in the rough. You see, Kitten, we're entering into a new age, one of wires and dials and buttons and gizmos that twirl and dance like a madman jigging on the head of a pin. And it all rests on the tiny shoulders of our friend, the copper filament." He produced a thin strand of copper wire from his pocket.

"It's all going to come down to this." He stood in the cramped space of the tunnel and gestured grandly within its constraints. "There's copper all around us. These hills are full of it, and whoever controls the town will control the copper."

He knelt before her again. "There's none in this shaft, though. But don't fret, little girl sheriff. This mine will find use one last time… as your tomb."

He rummaged through a sack he'd brought with him, drawing out a device that appeared to be composed of several sticks of dynamite and an alarm clock, connected by a tangled mess of wires. Mary's eyes widened in alarm.

"Yes, Kitten, you've guessed correctly. I'm going to blow this entire shaft to kingdom come, and you with it. And our friend, the copper filament, will have had its role to play in your demise as well." He ran a gloved finger lovingly over one of the wires.

"You'll never get away with this," she bluffed, hiding her fear. "There's a U.S. Marshal in town now, and I don't think you've got what it takes to take him on."

"He'll be dealt with easily enough. Many ants can bring down prey much larger than themselves, a tarantula, for example. That's the truly excellent thing about worker ants; you can throw as many as you want into harm's way, and if they don't come back, it's a simple enough matter to find more." He leaned in close, his breath hot and fetid in her face.

"Now, Kitten… perhaps there's something I can do for you before you die…" his gloved fingertips caressed her cheek, then stroked down her neck and plunged into her shirt. "How about it? Feel like going out with a bang before you go out with a bang?"

She spit on him with deadly accuracy; he wiped the wad of mucus from his eye and flicked it onto the ground. He backhanded her hard across the face, snapping her head back against the wall. The tunnel spun around her as a wave of dizziness overtook her and fireworks lit up behind her eyes. The drugs still weren't out of her system, either, and she retched nauseously.

"Don't say I didn't offer you better," the man hissed as he drew a second lantern from the sack and lit it from the first. He set the timer on the explosive device and placed it within the lantern's glow. "There you go. It's just not as fun if you don't get to watch the countdown. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make myself a rich and presumably very happy man."

With that, he swept out of the tunnel, taking his own lantern with him. Mary pulled weakly against her bonds, the hands on the clock blurring as her vision swam and she fought unconsciousness.

* * *

A handful of O'Connor's men loitered on horseback at the mountain's base, already growing dark as the mountain's bulk blocked out the setting sun. Marshall and Bobby D lay hidden in the brush nearby, Marshall in his duster to better blend into the darkness. It was thin cover, but it was effective given the distance and the gathering dusk, as well as the fact that the men were not particularly observant. Another man rode up, a man-sized figure slung over the back of his horse, unconscious or dead, they couldn't say.

"That looks like trouble," Eleanor whispered, startling both men; they hadn't heard her return from securing their horses far enough away not to be seen or heard.

As if on cue, from a small hole in the mountainside that had been nearly overgrown by brush, a man emerged, quite different from the others. He was a rather snappy dresser, and the other men were clearly in the habit of taking orders from him. The man gestured at the person-bundle and pointed to the hole from which he'd come.

"Put him in there. A few more minutes will bring the mountain down on them, him and the bitch both." The men followed his orders and all of them quickly rode off.

The three made their way quickly to the cave mouth. In the dim light filtering from outside, Marshall could make out the bulky shape they'd just deposited. He pulled the canvas away from the man's head.

"That's Peter Alpert," Bobby D confirmed grimly. "Is he dead?"

"No, he's breathing," Marshall replied, wrinkling his nose. "And that smell… he's been drugged. Get him out of here. I'll go deeper in and look for Mary."

Between them, Bobby D and Eleanor managed to bear the unconscious clergyman out. Marshall picked his way carefully into what he now realized was an abandoned mine shaft. Just as the dim light from the entrance finally gave out, he caught a faint trace of light from up ahead. He followed it and quickly came to the section of tunnel where Mary was chained.

"Mary!" he breathed as he caught sight of her hanging limply against the wall of the shaft. He knelt by her, his ear at her lips to detect even a hint of breath. He sighed in relief when he realized she was, in fact, breathing, albeit in a slow, labored way that disturbed him. There came another sound, however, that refocused his priorities.

The ominous tick-tick-tick quickly drew his attention to its source: an explosive device, and one timed to go off in five minutes, at that. There wasn't time to get back out, not nearly enough, given how Mary was chained, but he had to try.

He groped quickly in the leftover mining debris and located an abandoned pickaxe handle. It had clearly been there for some time; he could only pray it wasn't rotted through. Wrapping it in the chains that held the cuffs on her wrists, he pressed it against a support timber for leverage and threw his weight on the opposite end. The pick handle splintered, but the bolt holding her chains had pulled from the wall all the same, and she slumped forward with a senseless grunt.

Scooping her into his arms, Marshall bolted down the tunnel toward the entrance. All care was forfeited; a misstep wasn't as bad as taking it too slowly and getting caved in. He found that the sheriff's weight was not insubstantial; she was tall for a woman, and well-muscled, and out cold, all of which made her essentially dead weight. Finally the mouth of the tunnel came into view, the darkening sky outside only barely visible.

Seconds later, an explosion tore through the mountain, and brought the roof of the tunnel crashing down.

* * *

"I don't see them," Bobby D called to Eleanor as they watched the mine entrance from a short distance away.

Suddenly, a blast tore from the tunnel mouth, spewing rubble and dust as the mine caved in. Eleanor's hands flew to her mouth as she gasped in horror at the sight.

"Mary!" Bobby D shouted. "No!"

He started to run toward the tunnel entrance, only to have Eleanor drag him to a stop.

"No, Bobby! You can't go in there, it's too unstable," she cried, tears cutting tracks in the dust on her face. "They're gone."

"No…" he moaned hopelessly, sinking to his knees. "Mary…"

Eleanor gripped his shoulder tightly. "We have to get Peter back to town, while he still has time," she whispered.

The sheriff's deputy nodded, and after a moment, the two of them slung Peter over the back of the horse that should have been carrying Marshal Marshall Mann, and headed for home.

* * *

Marshall looked around, dazed; he'd emerged from the shaft only seconds before the explosion, thrown clear by the shock wave. It took him a moment to come to his senses, and when he did, he couldn't find the deputy or the tracker anywhere. Come to think of it, he couldn't find anything in the landscape that looked familiar. He brought his palm to his face. He must have gone down a parallel shaft by mistake in the darkness, coming out on another part of the mountain entirely. He hadn't even noticed the path out was different, he'd been so intent on saving Mary…

_Mary. _She lay curled against him where he'd fallen. She was still breathing, slow and labored; likely, she'd been drugged as well at some point, and he'd spotted the head wound when he'd lifted her in the tunnel. Fortunately, she didn't seem to have sustained any further damage in the blast, which was a minor miracle.

That was just about the only thing that was working in their favor. It was now completely dark. Marshall couldn't get a feel for direction at all; no light remained to distinguish east from west, and as he looked into the night sky, he realized that even the stars had become obscured by cloud cover. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and a crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. Marshall had heard how quickly storms could come up in the desert, and he knew they had to find shelter soon.

A short while later, he settled Mary into an alcove he'd found, well out of the flood plain of the desert floor. The storm finally reached them, a torrential downpour that would certainly cause flash flooding and possibly mudslides; their alcove seemed to be hewn from very solid rock, probably by wind erosion, and he thought they would be alright. Or rather, alright in terms of weather and terrain. However, he wasn't so sure about Mary.

He'd gotten a small fire going, and she looked pale in the flickering light, and her skin was cold. He thought she was in some kind of shock and he knew he'd need to keep her warm; he stripped off his duster, leaned back against the rock wall, and pulled her onto his lap, tucking the garment around them both. His only hope was that she would improve in the night, a possibility if she was suffering the aftereffects of being drugged as whatever she'd been dosed with made its way out of her system. The head wound didn't seem that severe, but then, what did he know?

If she was any better in the morning, they could risk making their way toward a place they knew, where someone might come looking for them, but even if she was improved, would anyone be looking? If no one knew about the second entrance to the mine, they might have already been presumed dead, in which case no one would be coming.

All he had was a canteen that had been nearly empty, which he'd refilled in the rain, a six-shooter that had already been shot twice, at the rifleman who'd driven Mary into the trap earlier, and the flickering light of the already dying fire. He drew his gun and kept it ready in case something wild came looking for an easy meal, and holding Mary close, he prepared to wait out the storm and the night.

* * *

**A/N: Whoever could our mystery bad guy be? *snerk* Like we all don't know... **

**Let's rustle up some reviews, and I'll see y'all in the next installment! =P**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS, so please don't sue me!**

**Author's Note: This fic is dedicated to the totally awesome BuJyo, and also to anyone else who's still sticking around to read it at this point! =)**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 6**

Thunder rolled over the desert plain, bringing Mary awake with a loud rumble. Though her perceptions were foggy, she realized immediately that she was in the desert. Small though the town was, it still felt, sounded, and smelled different than the desert itself.

Something covered her, warm and heavy, and she wasn't flush on the ground either; there was something beneath her that was an oddly specific combination of hard and soft. A body, she realized, and presumably a live one, as she could hear breath and a heartbeat within the chest on which her head rested. The heavy thing over her proved to be a long coat, weighted down by an arm that held her protectively. As she shifted, trying to get a better look at her surroundings, the arm tightened reflexively around her, but the person under her didn't stir.

There wasn't much to see in the darkness; the rain blotted out the stars and the moon, and the fire was nothing but glowing embers now. Lightning flashed, and she saw that they were in an alcove overlooking the desert floor, which was awash with rivulets of water that were probably deeper than they looked.

She turned back to the man holding her as lightning flashed again; the brief illumination cast his features into stark relief. _Marshal Marshall? _She recognized him but she had no idea how she'd come to be here in the desert with him, at night, in a thunderstorm. The last thing she remembered was riding out into the desert by day, making for the Alpert ranch, and coming under fire…

_No, _she thought. There was something else. Well, that something was missing in her recollections was obvious, but there was something else that she remembered. There was a tunnel, and a slickly-dressed man… a bad man, she felt, though the details were fuzzy, and as she tried to recover the memory, her headache intensified.

Whatever the case, she was with the marshal now, and though she barely knew him, she felt he could be trusted. He'd clearly had her in a compromising position and it didn't appear to her that he'd done anything to take advantage. If nothing else, he was going to be mightily sore when he woke up after sitting against rock all night with her weight on top of him.

Mary slid carefully to the side, away from his gun hand in case he needed it, and settled on the ground next to him, redistributing the duster to cover them both. She noted and was impressed by the fact that even asleep, he kept a grip on the gun in his hand. She curled against his side for warmth in the desert night, shifting herself until she could rest her head on his shoulder at an angle that didn't make the pain worse, and as she let sleep reclaim her, the arm that had held her tightened instinctively around her once more.

* * *

"Wake up, Sheriff Mary Shannon," the voice spoke, filled with resolve though not harsh. It was a woman's voice that gave the command, and with her hand, Mary shaded her eyes against the morning sun as she opened them in obedience.

"Eleanor?" Mary whispered, her throat dry and raspy from the dust of their close call in the mine, and the aftereffects of the drug with which she'd been dosed the day before. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her stirring started the marshal beside her into wakefulness. Mary pinned his gun hand to the ground, moving as quickly as she could, allowing him a moment to collect himself before he accidentally shot someone. He struggled for an instant, relaxing as she came into focus. His gaze lingered on her for a second, and she thought she saw relief cross his face as he looked at her. Had it really been that close of a call? Then, the moment was past, and his eyes focused past her on the tracker and the sheriff's deputy.

"How did you find us?" Marshall asked, perplexed but relieved.

"She saw you in a dream," Bobby D replied, his tone one of wonderment as he looked to the tracker. "I still don't understand it, but she came to me at dawn and said she'd had some kind of vision of where to find you."

"If it's there to be found, I can find it," Eleanor added cryptically.

Mary gave the other woman an assessing stare, then nodded in acceptance. She really didn't need to know how it worked, only that it had.

"Peter?"

"Your sister's taking care of him," Bobby D informed her.

"God be with him," she muttered dryly. "Got a mount for me, D?"

"Eleanor said we'd only need one, so long as it could carry you both," he answered, hesitating for a moment before he continued. "She said you'd be in no condition to ride by yourself."

"That," Mary snapped as she heaved herself upright, "is a load of horse manure…"

Her protests were cut short as the desert seemed to spin around her, and she staggered; Marshall, suddenly at her side, caught her, and that alone kept her standing.

"Fine," she muttered, unwilling to admit weakness, and the others left it at that.

Their mount was a large, strong horse. It was not saddled in the western fashion but was bare-backed in the native style. It didn't particularly matter to Marshall; he would be able to stay on a horse either way, having ridden since childhood, and he was confident that he could keep Mary on as well. In fact, it made the ride easier, because there wouldn't be the issue of fitting two people into one saddle. Eleanor was gifted with remarkable foresight, it seemed.

After he swung himself onto the mount, he reached for Mary and pulled her up after him. His arm slipped around her waist and drew her securely against his chest. He threaded his fingers into the horse's mane, as Eleanor did with her own mount, and they followed the tracker and the deputy back to town.

* * *

As they drew close, they realized something was amiss. The people who should be out and about on the streets weren't, and the men who were out and about were strangers. _O'Connor's men, _Marshall thought grimly. Though of course, O'Connor was working for the mysterious individual who had tried to kill Mary in the mine explosion. That much was obvious.

The four riders on three mounts took a circuitous route to the edge of the small town, approaching carefully so as not to be spotted. As they crept up behind the cathouse, a low whistle caught their attention. Leaning surreptitiously out the back entrance was Charlie, the mayor's assistant. He waved them over eagerly.

Their horses left discreetly stabled nearby, they slipped into the brothel with all possible stealth. As showy and inviting as it could be from the front with it's large porch and typically whore-laden balcony, the building was designed in such a way that private entrances and exits could be made from the back.

Once inside, they were ushered upstairs, where they found Brandi, Jinx, and Mayor Stan McQueen, gathered around the bedside of Peter Alpert.

"He's faring well," the mayor informed them upon their arrival. "Our town, less so. That man, Faber, I think he said his name was, has laid siege to us, in a manner of speaking."

"He's keeping his men away from here… at least until his business is done. He doesn't want them distracted," Jinx supplied, wringing her hands worriedly. "Once he's gotten what he's after, there'll be no stopping them."

"We'd really rather not be pressed into involuntary service," Brandi added, her lip wrinkled in distaste.

Mary squinted at her sister. "Isn't 'involuntary' kind of a big word for you?"

Brandi shrugged. "I heard Peter say it when he was awake earlier. He says it means when you don't want to do something, but someone makes you anyway. And I'm like, no."

"We won't let it come to that," Mary declared, her eyes flashing in defiance. "It's time to break out the guns."

"Oh, okay," Brandi replied, turning and fumbling around on top of a nearby wardrobe. When she drew her hand back, it held a pearl-handled revolver that was positively enormous.

"Whoa, Chickadee," Bobby D addressed her, his eyes wide. "What's with the hand cannon?"

"Oh, some guy… uh… left it here."

"Meaning she stole it from a customer," Mary added sagely.

"She can actually shoot that thing?" Marshall asked dubiously.

The corner of Mary's lip twitched into a smirk, accompanied by what might even have been a look of pride for her sister.

"Yes, she can."

Brandi headed for the hall. "I'll get the girls started on pryin' up the floorboards for the rifles," she called over her shoulder as she went.

* * *

**A/N: Next time, on West of the Pecos: A showdown? A gunfight? A good ol' western-style shootout? Y'all gotta come back next chapter to find out! =D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: As IPS is not a western, it should be clear by now that I don't own it! ;P**

**Author's Note: Dedicated to BuJyo (Get well soon!), and all the other readers who are still reading this, which it turns out are kind of a lot! You guys are awesome! =D**

**Time for the big action/violence/showdown chapter! Still rated T, because it's not too graphic, but I thought I'd let y'all know, just in case! =)  
**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 7**

"Let me get this straight," Marshall turned to the sheriff. "You keep rifles under the floorboards?"

"Yep," Mary replied, still smirking.

"Is this a whorehouse or an armory?" he asked, positively goggling at her. Mary's smirk widened into a wolfish grin in response.

"Well, sometimes people… leave… their things, like Brandi said," Jinx explained. "And if someone dies on the premises, then we keep their effects."

Marshall's eyes widened further, a feat that Mary wouldn't have thought was possible.

"Oh, of course we don't _kill _them," Jinx added hastily, holding up a hand to forestall his protest. "No one would want to go to a cathouse where the ladies were _murdering _people, after all. But sometimes the patrons kill each other, and there's really not much we can do about that."

"Not to mention the ones that drop dead in the sack," Brandi chimed in as she re-entered the room.

She cradled in her arms perhaps half a dozen rifles, a burden she obviously found heavy. She dumped them on the foot of the bed for distribution to the room's occupants. The massive pearl-handled revolver was now tucked into a leather belt cinched tightly at her waist, somewhat at odds with her burlesque-worthy attire.

"So… you _are _killing them, in a manner of speaking," he addressed the heavily armed prostitute, who shrugged.

"I guess when you put it that way, kind of, yeah," she replied indifferently.

"Holy Jesus," Marshall murmured.

"Is it the plethora of weaponry or the notion of dying _in flagrante delicto _that causes you to take the name of our Lord's son in vain?" Peter piped up from the bed, awake for the first time since Mary and Marshall had arrived.

"A little of both," Marshall replied, clearly still turning over the ideas of an armed brothel and death by intercourse in his head.

"I can't fault you there," the man of the cloth replied, before turning his attention to Stan. "Would you be so kind as to help me to the chair by the front window? I'm a bit weak for standing, but I believe I can still aim."

"I wouldn't have thought a man of God would be willing to shoot someone," Marshall stated, growing more perplexed with each passing moment.

"Let he who is without sin fire the first bullet," Peter replied dryly as the mayor helped him get settled and Brandi handed him one of the rifles and a box of ammunition.

At that moment, Charlie burst into the bedroom, having returned to his post downstairs after showing the sheriff's party inside. It had evidently been his task to keep an eye on the comings and goings of the invading gang.

"Bad news, sir," he addressed the mayor. "They don't appear to have found what they're after, and they're starting to gather out in front. This is the only building they haven't checked."

Mary and Marshall moved to the sides of one window, stealing surreptitious glances at the scene below. The building was indeed faced by a mob of O'Connor's - no, Faber's men. They looked as though they were preparing to storm the cathouse at any moment.

"Attention, hookers!" Faber's voice called from outside. The memory of it sent chills down Mary's spine. "This is your soon-to-be-mayor, Michael Faber! I'm real eager to do business with all of you, but first, I need to find this town's current mayor so that I can kill him and gain his mayoral powers! You ladies wouldn't happen to know where he's hiding by any chance, would you?"

Marshall's brow furrowed as he looked at Mary. "Is this guy insane?" he asked, confused.

"I think he might be," she replied, her own brow creasing as she tried to remember. "He thinks there's copper in the hills outside of town, and he wants to make it into wires or some such nonsense."

She saw Stan's eyes light up at the mention of copper, and she felt the announcement of a new get-rich-quick-and-put-the-town-on-the-map scheme coming on.

"Keep your trap shut, Stan. Whatever it is can wait until we've taken care of this guy," she snapped, cutting the mayor off when his mouth was already half open. It snapped shut again quickly, and he nodded his deference.

As Mary pulled back from the window, the room seemed to spin for a moment, and she staggered slightly before regaining her footing.

"Oh dear Lord, Mary, what's happened to you?" Jinx cried out, having noticed for the first time the matted patch of bloodied hair on her eldest daughter's head. She reached forward to inspect the injury.

"Oww, Jesus! Woman, I'm fine!" Mary growled, batting her mother's hand away. "Did you really think the cut on my head would feel better if you were to stick your fingers in it?"

"Well pardon me for caring!" Jinx sniffed, picking up and loading her rifle before gesturing at the window to indicate the situation outside. "Anyway, what are we going to do about… about that?"

"We're going to make them wish they'd never set foot in our town," she stated defiantly.

"You ready to do this thing?" Brandi asked her sister, looking impatient and dangerous with her rifle in hand and her six-shooter in her belt, and otherwise still in full hooker regalia.

"Damn right, I am," Mary responded with a deadly grin.

Brandi headed downstairs, for what purpose, Marshall knew not, though it seemed clear enough that the sisters were following some long-standing contingency plan. _Honestly, who plans for something like this? _he wondered as Mary kicked open the door to the balcony and strode out into the blazing brightness of high noon.

"Hey, asshole!" Mary's voice bellowed. "You want us, come and get us!"

"Holy crap! Kitten! It's you!" Faber cried in surprise as she loosed a shot at him.

Unfortunately, she missed; her aim was off because she was still wobbly from her injury. Faber's men broke ranks for a moment, and in that instant of chaos, Brandi made her move.

"_Whores! Charge!_" her bellowing voice gave the order, and in an instant the street was flooded with angry, armed prostitutes.

The outlaws were taken by surprise, unable to mount a defense as they were confronted with a sea of scantily clad, jiggling women. Weapons were discharged in a frenzy, the booming report of Brandi's large-caliber weapon audible over the others, and more than one man was felled by the swinging butt of a rifle wielded by a hooker's hands.

Marshall, Eleanor, and Bobby D joined Mary in providing support from the balcony, taking down the men positioned on neighboring rooftops in a staccato of successive rifle fire. Mary noticed that Marshall grunted softly with each shot; the recoil seemed to be straining his shoulder, and she wondered if he had injured it at some point.

In a few moments it was all over; the majority of Faber's men were dead, and the remaining few were scattering to the winds. Faber himself was nowhere to be seen.

As Mary glanced down, assessing the damage, she spotted movement: O'Connor rose from behind a rain barrel across the street and leveled a pistol at her sister.

"Brandi!" Mary screamed, and before either sister could react, the air was split by the crack of a single gunshot.

O'Connor fell, dead, as a thin wisp of gun smoke curled from the barrel of Peter Alpert's rifle.

* * *

"The preacher really came through, saving your sister like that. I didn't think he had it in him," Marshall noted as the party made their way downstairs, with the exception of Peter and Brandi, the latter having run upstairs after her close call to tend to the holy man.

"She's probably trying to pay him back in trade as we speak," Mary replied, smirking.

"Well, you know what they say. 'No good deed goes unpunished,'" he grinned.

"No casualties among the ladies of the evening, only a few minor injuries," Charlie reported happily as they arrived on the ground floor. "Doc Eps is already seeing to the deceased among the outlaws."

"You have a doctor?" Marshall asked, confused. "Then why isn't he tending to the living?"

"Oh, he's not really a doctor," Jinx informed him. "That is to say, he used to be, but his patients tended to, um… die. Rather often, actually."

"Now he's our undertaker," Charlie added helpfully.

"This town scares me," Marshall muttered to the sheriff.

"Well, what about this maniac, Faber?" Stan demanded. "Are we going to search him out, or aren't we?"

"Prostitutes!" Charlie shouted. "To the streets! Find Michael Faber!"

"Well, that takes care of that," Mary remarked as she watched the young man lead his army of iniquity through the door and down the street.

"They really seem to like him," Marshall added as he watched the spectacle.

"Well, he practically lives here," she replied. "He's on friendly terms with most of the girls, if you know what I mean."

"That's… uh…" Marshall trailed off before switching topics. "Perhaps we should go out and look, as well."

Mary shrugged and led the way outside.

* * *

The group had split up, with Mary and Marshall taking one side of the street and Eleanor and Bobby D taking the other. Marshall had wandered through a gap between the general store and the wainwright while Mary checked out a nearby storage warehouse, and found himself in a secluded rear alley. It seemed clear and he was about to leave, when a scuffing footstep behind him stopped him in his tracks.

"Well, if it isn't the marshal dispatched by the government of these United States to throw a wrench in my plans," Faber taunted. "We meet at last."

Marshall turned slowly; he found that the man had not yet drawn, but his hand hovered over the butt of a holstered gun. The desperation in his eyes told Marshall that he wanted to draw against him, and didn't care if he lived or died. Staging a shootout with a desperate man was never a good idea, and in this case, Marshall knew something Faber didn't. While Faber thought the odds were even, Marshall already knew what the outcome of the gunfight would be; he'd come down hard on his shoulder when he'd escaped the explosion in the mine, and the joint was stiff and sore.

He would be unable to draw quickly, and he would lose.

But he had to try. There was no other choice. This had to end before more lives were lost… before more harm could befall Mary. If Faber's bullet didn't kill him instantly, if he had time for just one shot...

"I am United States Marshal Marshall Mann," he replied icily, "and I'm the man you're looking for."

* * *

**A/N: Dun dun duuuuunnnnn! Cliffhanger! What will happen to Marshal Marshall? And Mary? And the hookers? But most especially Marshall? Saddle up next time for the answers to this and more in the next chapter of West of the Pecos, and don't forget to review this chapter, too! =D**

**Also, there looks to be a ratings bump in the near future, so look for the next chapter under M! ;D**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I don't own IPS, or anything else of value, so suing me over it would be fruitless!**

**Warning: Now rated M, for sexual content; if you don't want that, you can skip over the rest of the chapter starting at the point where Marshall enters his bedroom.  
**

**Author's Note: Written for BuJyo. Now with more smut! I hope all of you folks out there in FanfictionLand enjoy it anyway. =P**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 8**

_Previously:_

_He'd come down hard on his shoulder when he'd escaped the explosion in the mine, and the joint was stiff and sore. He would be unable to draw quickly, and he would lose._

_But he had to try. There was no other choice. This had to end before more lives were lost… before more harm could befall Mary. If Faber's bullet didn't kill him instantly, if he had time for just one shot..._

_"I am United States Marshal Marshall Mann," he replied icily, "and I'm the man you're looking for."_

* * *

"You said marshal twice," Faber stated, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

"It is both a name and an occupation," Marshall replied evenly.

"So… wait… you're Marshal Marshall? Get out of town!" Faber scoffed, his tone one of derision.

"I believe you're the one who should consider getting out. You're beaten, Faber. Give it up."

"It's true enough that I've underestimated your army of prostitutes," Faber hissed, deadly serious once more. "But I'm not beaten yet. Those men were only drones, workers to be cast aside and replaced like so much piffle when they've ceased to be useful. They were not unlike ants in that regard… merely worker ants, and there are so many more where they came from."

"You still have to get past me," Marshall issued the challenge, feeling less confident than he sounded, yet standing firm in his resolve to make this count. He might die here, but if luck was on his side, he just might take Faber with him. Then the town, and Mary, would be safe.

Faber's fingers twitched in the air above the grip of his holstered six-shooter. Marshall's hand also hovered over his own piece, but his shoulder ached and protested even the smallest movements. Then came the draw.

Marshall wasn't fast enough; his gun had barely cleared the holster by the time Faber fired. A searing pain lanced through his already strained right shoulder and he dropped to the ground. He struggled to hold on to his weapon, trying to ignore the now very real possibility that he would be unable to fire even if he maintained his grip. The gun was heavy in his hand, and he brought his left hand to cup his right as he leveled the pistol at his foe.

It was a curious thing that Faber had not fired again in the intervening seconds and finished him after his first shot went wild; more curious still was the terrific crash that had accompanied the shot, the spray of porcelain that exploded around Faber's head as the man flopped bonelessly to the ground. Marshall breathed heavily as he attempted both to resolve the images before him into sense and to quell the surge of adrenaline that would surely leave his hands shaking and his wound searing in its wake. Nonetheless, it was that very rush that prevented him from understanding what had happened.

"Marshall, put your weapon down," Mary ordered firmly, her voice low and calm, yet commanding, and he realized it was she at whom he now aimed his gun, standing in Faber's place with what appeared to be the rim of a shattered Oriental vase in her hand, presumably from the warehouse she'd been searching.

He did as she commanded, horrified at the notion that he might have shot her inadvertently if he hadn't taken that moment to puzzle through the chaos of the event that had just transpired. Then his shoulder began to sing, and he hissed, wincing, at the pain. She was at his side in a heartbeat, fingers fumbling over the buttons of his shirt until she had it undone enough to pull it back from his shoulder. She wiped away the blood with her bare hands - no shrinking violet, this one - and a relieved smile washed over her face.

"It's a little deeper than a graze, but it isn't too bad," she told him. Then her expression shifted to one of consternation. "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"I couldn't let him hurt you more than he has. I had to try," Marshall replied.

Mary slapped him across the face, hard, and then seized his shirt and pulled him into a rough kiss. Despite the force of her actions, Marshall felt that he might have died and gone to heaven after all; her lips were soft and warm, and the few seconds that it lasted were pure bliss. He felt almost breathless as she pulled away.

"Was that for trying to save you?" he asked softly.

"Idiot," Mary scoffed. "That was for being stupid enough to try to draw on Faber when your shoulder's injured."

Marshall's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You knew?"

"Of course I did," she said as she stood, pulling him up after her. "You could barely fire your rifle in the shootout."

Before he could respond, her hand shot out and slapped him again. His eyes widened as he rubbed his reddening cheek.

"That was for thinking I needed saving. Head back to the cathouse and let Eleanor fix up your wound, and get cleaned up," she smirked over her shoulder as she turned to face her deputy, who had arrived following the sound of the gunshot. "D, put this slug in a cell, will you?"

He cocked his head to the side as he watched her. A very interesting woman, indeed.

"And you're going to need a new shirt!" she added, catching his glance and flapping a hand at him dismissively.

As he walked away, he glanced down and saw that she was right; in addition to the staining caused by his wound, he saw that she had torn part of the shirt in an effort to get it free. Gripping the injury to staunch the blood, he couldn't help but smile.

* * *

As he heaved himself out of the bath, Marshall felt human again. He was clean of the accumulated dirt, sweat, and grime of their adventures, and Eleanor had tended to his shoulder well. She had packed the injury with some kind of odd-smelling herbal poultice that she insisted would ward off infection, and it seemed to have a numbing effect as well. It was clean and bandaged, and he'd taken care not to get it wet as he bathed; there was also a sling, little more than a cloth tied at the appropriate length, but it afforded his tired shoulder the opportunity to rest.

His clothes, or what remained of them, had been taken by the ladies of the house to be laundered, with the promise that they would actually be returned, and he'd been provided a temporary ensemble out of some clothing they had on hand. Evidently, they kept the clothes of men who died on the premises as well as guns.

Getting dressed proved interesting, as he discovered the shirt provided wouldn't quite fit over the bandage. He decided to forego wearing it entirely. He was in a brothel, after all, and he was reasonably certain he could send out for a replacement for his old shirt in the morning. _When in Rome…_

As he made his way down the hall, the sounds of the whorehouse were loud and raucous around him. The entire town was making a night of it, it seemed, and the establishment looked to turn a good profit from the revelry following the events of the day. He felt a blush creep over his face at the many and varied, yet always enthusiastic noises; the occupants of the whorehouse were filled with reckless abandon, among other things, and he wasn't entirely sure what to think of it. Yet, it did make him think of something, and that something was as specific as it was indecent.

He found himself wondering where Mary was.

He also found himself wondering when, exactly, it had become the case that a thought like that would have made him feel unseemly. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her that he'd been with other women before; yet this was different. In all other cases, his occupation had demanded that he be able to move on and walk away. Perhaps that was the difference: he wasn't entirely certain this was something he'd be able to walk away from, or that he would want to even if he found that he could.

When he entered his room, there was no longer a question of where Mary could be found. She was waiting for him, dressed only in a man's shirt that was much too large for her. She approached him slowly, a look of barely suppressed nervous excitement in her eyes. When she reached him, she ran a hand over his bare, muscular chest as she commented on her attire.

"I thought I might as well bring you a new one," she murmured, her voice suffused with lust, and that was all it took.

Like a spark thrown on a dry prairie, he was ablaze with passion, and his free hand cupped her head and pulled her into a kiss, the likes of which he'd never given or received before; he wanted to possess her, to love her, to screw her until he had nothing left. He didn't know what would come with the dawn, but the night was theirs.

He fumbled free of his sling once more, because dear_ God _one hand on her wasn't enough, and in a frenzy the shirt she'd been wearing was removed, and who knew how wearable it would be after the fact but he just didn't care. He ducked his head to take her nipple into his mouth, drawing whimpering moans of ecstasy from her as he moved them both to the bed. His repeated actions on her other breast drove her further into a frenzy, and she let herself fall onto the mattress, pulling him after her.

She reached for his belt and unfastened the buckle, and he took the hint; his boots dropped to the floor and his trousers followed, and in an instant he was settled between her thighs once more. He pressed his hard length against her opening, searching her eyes for permission, and she thrust back at him, encouraging him, and he surged forward and filled her. A gasp turned into a throaty groan that escaped from both of them in tandem as she stretched around him. She was slick and gripped him tightly with each thrust, and he knew it would not be long before he found release inside of her.

The pace of his thrusts increased and he penetrated deeply; she groaned and cursed and begged him to go harder, her own hips matching his rhythm, her legs entwined with his, her entire body tensing with her own impending climax. He held her tightly as he pounded her, and her groans broke into something closer to a scream as she came. As she pulsed around him, he pressed into her, deep and hard, spilling into her with a rough cry of his own.

He was breathless, gasping as he came down from such a height, managing to keep himself from collapsing on top of her, but only just, and she gave a breathy gasp with each residual twitch his manhood gave inside her. Before he could completely recover, she was moving around him again, stroking hardness back into his barely softened member with her velvety caress.

He moaned as she stimulated him, and after a moment, she pushed against the bed and rolled them so that she straddled his hips and he lay beneath her. She moved on top of him, her hands pressed to his chest and her eyelids fluttering closed as she pleasured herself with him at a sedate pace. His eyes roved over her, taking in her firm, round breasts with hard, pink nipples, her taut belly, the place where she joined with him. His hands followed the same course, cupping her breasts and tracing over her nipples with his thumbs, sliding over her belly and settling on her hips as he met her slow motions with deep, rolling thrusts of his own.

This time around, they took their time, savoring the languid pace. She swiveled her hips, moving him within her and eliciting soft moans of pleasure from both of them. After a time, he reached for her and pulled her down against his chest; he kissed her and their tongues twined in a slow, passionate imitation of their bodies. His hands alternately stroked through her hair and slid down her back now and then to cup her backside and allow for a particularly deep thrust, and she began to move over him faster as the pair once more approached oblivion. Another few moments, another ragged cry from both of them, and they lay in each other's arms, complete.

He loved her, he realized; really and truly, with all that he was. His life could no longer go on as it had been going. Something would have to be done about that, come morning… but the night wasn't over yet, it seemed, as Mary was kissing his throat and running her hand over a part of him that had begun to harden once more.

* * *

**A/N: *Ahem.* Yeah. So there it is! Let me know what you think! And next time on West of the Pecos, the stunning conclusion of our story! **

**So saddle up and... *coughs* *can no longer say 'saddle up' with a straight face* ... uh... Y'all come back now, ya hear? =D**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't IPS or the characters. I just write them up in some western fun!**

**Author's Note: With this chapter, West of the Pecos rides off into the sunset. Dedicated to the amazing BuJyo for her birthday; this was really the gift that kept on giving, wasn't it? =P**

**My thanks for her support of my writing, and my thanks to all of my readers for your support as well. =)**

* * *

**West of the Pecos**

**Part 9**

Dawn broke over the desert as a woman whispered in the ear of an unconscious man, words to be remembered later cast over him like a spell. She left the man before he could wake, tied, to a stake driven into the desert floor. Her soft leather boots padded lightly over rock and compacted sand as she made her way to the small, dapple-gray horse that waited for her; she mounted the creature, and as swiftly as the wind that tugged at the feathers in her hair, she was gone.

The desert sun beat down on the man tied to the stake in the ground as he stirred. Faber's mouth felt dry as he came to, and he had a splitting headache.

"What… what the hell is this?" he muttered as he tried to move and realized he was bound by a rope and could not move. "Why am I tied up? And why am I sticky?"

Sticky, he was, for he had evidently been smeared all over with a liberal coating of what appeared to be honey, and he was naked.

"What happened to my clothes?" he muttered again, though there was no one around to ask.

_You know what you've done, bringer of death and destruction, _a voice murmured softly, as though from within his own mind. It was a female voice, soft yet unyielding, like velvet over steel.

"What?" he asked weakly.

_John Prince was a shopkeeper, a kind and innocent man who never harmed a soul, _the voice continued. _He was making a simple currency exchange at the bank when it was robbed by O'Connor's men… your men. He was my husband, and he was killed that day. My John may not have died at your hands, Michael Faber, but his death lies at your feet. Now we have come full circle, and death has come for you._

"Who the hell are you?" Faber cried out as the merciless desert sun bore down.

_My name is Eleanor Prince, _the voice breathed, _and nature will take my revenge for me. No longer will you sow the seeds of chaos; as you have sown, so shall you reap._

Faber became aware of a crawling, tickling sensation about his feet, moving up his legs. He looked down, and saw a myriad of small, red things moving up his legs: ants.

"Hello, little ants!" he greeted them, cocksure once more in his heat-addled state. "What would you say to chewing through these ropes for me?"

The tickling feeling gave way to a painful stinging as the ants gave their reply, and Faber's screams echoed through the desert for no man to hear.

* * *

Mary leaped back onto the porch of the cathouse, only narrowly avoiding being caught under the enormous front wheel of Charlie's bicycle. The heinous contraption had been newly mended after Raphael's mishandling earlier in the week, and already the young man was nearly killing people with it.

"Damn kid," Mary grumbled as she stared after Charlie with narrowed eyes. "If he doesn't watch it, I'm going to take that thing and ride it right up his a-"

"Hey, Mary," Bobby D called to her as he spotted her and crossed the street, interrupting her muttered complaints.

"D," she greeted him less than cordially; her deputy, used to her tempestuous moods, was unfazed.

"I couldn't help but notice that Faber isn't in his cell anymore."

"That's why I pay you the big bucks, Dershowitz," she replied. "Can't get anything by you."

"First, you don't pay me. Stan does. Second, there's no sign of a jailbreak. It's almost as though he was deliberately released."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Mary said with a grin, a humorless, dangerous grin that gave her deputy pause.

"Should I be worried?"

"Relax, will you? I didn't do anything to him."

"Then… where is he?" Bobby D asked, not entirely certain he wanted the answer.

Mary's grin widened. "I gave him to Eleanor."

Dershowitz's eyebrows lifted in surprise. He knew better than to ask what Mary suspected Eleanor might have done with the man. It wouldn't have been pretty, but that was the form justice sometimes took in the West.

Their conversation drew to a halt as Charlie careened by again, this time almost running down the deputy.

"Goddammit, Charlie!" Mary barked. "So help me, if I see you almost run someone over one more time, you won't see that bicycle again until you've eaten nothing but prunes for a week!"

"Sorry, Miss Shannon," Charlie replied as he dismounted, bowler hat in his hands as he bobbed his head respectfully. "It's just that Stan's had me running orders back and forth to the caved-in mine all morning."

"Hmph," Mary scoffed. "He's had men working up there for days. What's he cooking up in that bald head of his now?"

Charlie glanced around conspiratorially before leaning in close, speaking in a confidential tone. "Well, that's the big secret, ain't it? Stan doesn't want anyone to know just yet, but I reckon it's okay to tell you."

"Tell me what?" Mary asked dubiously. Bobby D leaned in closer, obviously curious. Charlie looked around once more before he continued.

"You know that Faber fella was so sure there was copper up in those hills? Well, that's the big news: the men up there, working on the cave in… they actually _found _some."

"Really?" Mary was nonplussed.

"Yes, ma'am. Looks like the explosion opened up a new vein, a whole great big mother lode of the stuff. And those hills are owned by the town, in a trust managed by whomever happens to be in charge. That's why Faber was so hot to kill Stan and make himself our mayor. Of course, he wouldn't have been elected by due process, but you know the old saying, 'might makes right'."

"He would have just killed anyone who tried to contest his claim," Mary murmured softly.

"You and that marshal saved a whole lot of people, Miss Shannon. This town owes you a lot."

Mary pressed her lips into a thin, hard line as she nodded; Charlie took the gesture as a dismissal and headed on his way.

It had been two days since she'd woken up alone, the morning after she and Marshall had been together. Evidently he couldn't get away from her fast enough, as he'd cleared out while she slept and left without so much as saying thanks for the roll in the hay… or goodbye. The best she could figure, he'd saddled up literally not long after he'd saddled up figuratively with her, riding out in the faintest light of dawn.

It hurt more than she had thought it would, more than it should have. She had spent the past two days trying not to think of it, putting him out of her mind as best she could, but when the thought of him came back to her, it was like a slap in the face every time. She'd let herself get attached to a man who could not possibly stay with her, and she should have known better.

Bobby D sighed, seeing on her face the wall she was putting up around her heart. He'd known better than to say anything when the marshal had left, and now, he did the only thing he could, the only thing she would allow: he lightly clapped a sympathetic hand to her shoulder before sidling back across the street to the jail, leaving her with her own thoughts.

Mary leaned against the post that bounded the porch railing and supported the balcony above. Sometimes life was just damned unfair. She almost wished she was a prostitute, like her sister and her mother; if she was going to be used for sex and then left, she should at least get paid for it.

"Mary!" Brandi's voice called breathlessly, as though summoned by her thoughts. Mary's younger sister appeared at her side, nearly bouncing with what Mary guessed was barely contained glee.

"Guess what, guess what, guess what?" she squealed as Mary turned to face her. Mary gave an exaggerated shrug, uncertain where to even begin. Knowing her sister, it could be anything from booking a large number of clients in one night to getting the newfangled indoor toilet to flush properly.

"Peter… he asked me to marry him!" she practically shrieked. "He wants to make a righteous woman out of me, and lead me out of the wages of sin and damnation! Isn't that wonderful?"

Mary stared at her sister agape, mustering a smile she didn't really feel. "That is… not what I would have guessed!" she replied with feigned enthusiasm.

Brandi pulled her into a hug before running back into the whorehouse, squealing incoherently as she went. Mary rubbed her hands roughly over her face before running them through her hair as an angry growl rumbled up from her throat.

"Is this the perfect day for _everyone _but me?" she cried out in frustration. No one on the street had the poor sense to attempt giving her an answer.

* * *

The tall man with the badge waited in the telegraph office, wearing a duster that was draped slightly awkwardly over his right arm which rested in a sling. He'd been waiting since two nights ago, when he'd arrived in Santa Fe after a day's ride and sent his message. Of course the bureaucracy was slow to move in normal cases, and his superiors back east tended not to lend much weight to matters occurring on the frontier.

He was awaiting his new orders, which would hopefully take into account the message he'd sent. If not, the United States government would soon find itself one marshal short.

He looked up as the clerk behind the counter beckoned to him; one way or another, it seemed, the wait was over.

* * *

Mary leaned forward, her forearms resting on the porch railing as she watched the sunset. The view was quite good; she could see right down the main street of the town to the west, where the desert was bathed in a saffron glow and the mountains were silhouetted black against a blazing orange sky.

She might have had a better view from the balcony, but she liked to maintain a visual presence in town to remind everyone who the law was here. Things had been peaceful since Faber's gang had been disbanded, but if what Charlie said about copper in the mine was true, that peace wouldn't last. The town would grow, and with it would grow lawlessness. She would be busy soon enough. She might even need to take on another deputy… or five. It wouldn't be a problem; she knew a few women who were as good with a gun as they were in bed, and that was definitely saying something.

She squinted into the orange light as movement on the desert floor caught her eye; the blur of motion soon coalesced into a figure on horseback. A tall one, with a long duster flapping with the horse's steady canter.

"Oh, hell," she murmured to herself. She pushed off from the railing and made swift strides to the middle of the road, meeting the rider as he drew up in front of her and slid from the saddle.

"What the hell do you think you're doing back here?" she demanded of the man standing before her.

He silently reached into the inner pocket of his coat and handed her a scrap of paper from the telegraph office. Mary glanced at it.

_Permanent posting approved per imminent growth in locale of previous assignment STOP_

Her gaze shifted back to his, her eyes filled with confusion and seeking clarity.

"United States Marshal Marshall Mann, reporting for duty," he answered her unspoken question.

"This is why you left?" she asked, holding the paper aloft.

"I couldn't say what I needed to say until I knew for sure," he replied in a softer tone.

"What did you need to say?" Her voice was hesitant. She couldn't handle more disappointment, not from this man before her…

"I needed to say that… I've fallen in love with you, Mary Shannon." His heart thus displayed on his sleeve, he held his breath as he waited for her response.

"That's Sheriff Mary to you," she answered, her whispered reply carrying an unspoken invitation, and before she could say anything more, his lips were on hers, his uninjured arm pulling her close.

After innumerable pounding heartbeats, he pulled back, his eyes meeting hers with a look of much more than affection.

"I thought men like you rode away into the sunset, not home out of it," she smirked.

"Not this cowboy," Marshall replied, a gleam in his eyes mirroring her amusement. "Not this time. Never again."

He pulled her to him once more, and she draped her arms around his neck as their lips joined again in the orange glow of the setting sun.

* * *

**A/N: I hope you have all enjoyed this story. Let me know what you thought of it! **

**I'll be back round these here parts with other stories to tell, so I'll be seeing y'all again real soon! =D**


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